


walk the edge

by acciogramander



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Gramander, M/M, Modern AU, Police AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-15
Updated: 2017-04-15
Packaged: 2018-10-19 02:42:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,108
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10630476
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/acciogramander/pseuds/acciogramander
Summary: Newt Scamander is a profiler, and a damned good one at that.Percival Graves is a detective, and the one person that Newt can't seem to figure out. That makes him interesting.Newt plans to break down those walls and see exactly who Percival Graves is behind his mask and all the walls he puts up.Even if it kills him.





	

"Scamander! Wake the fuck up!" Newt was startled awake when his roommate, Jacob Kowalski, started beating him with a pillow, "You're gonna be late for work, idiot!" One glance at the glowing green numbers of his alarm clock told him that if he didn't get up now, he would be late getting to the precinct. "I'm up, I'm up," He glared at the short man and grabbed a tee shirt from his bedside table, "Now scram, so I can get ready."

Jacob merely smirked and left the room. Newt rolled his eyes and threw on the tee shirt and a pair of nice jeans, a dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows and a pair of boots. Normally he never dressed like this, but he was starting a new job, and first impressions did matter. So he sucked it up and fixed his unruly cinnamon-colored curls and grabbed his satchel and phone before he joined Jacob in the kitchen.

Jacob, as usual, was baking, "Having breakfast, Newt?" He asked over his shoulder, and Newt merely shook his head and poured himself a mug of coffee, "I have to get going, but thanks, Jake," He grabbed the to-go mug and left the flat, smiling up at the sky and the glowing sunshine. It was a beautiful day for New York, and it gave him a rush of confidence as he straddled his motorcycle and slipped the helmet onto his head. He loved the thrum of the bike, the power of it as he slipped into traffic and made his way to the precinct.

\------

"Mister Scamander?" A young blonde woman at the receptionist's desk greeted him, "Welcome to New York! We're so glad to have you here, honey!" She said enthusiastically, and he glanced at the nametag on her desk before he thanked her, "Nice to meet you, Miss Goldstein. I'm happy to be here, too," He gives her a small, shy smile of his own, "Can I go right in?"

"Oh please, call me Queenie!" She giggled and pointed at a door, "Right through there, honey. There's a door with you name on in there, that's your office," Handing him a few files, she smiled at the shy and nervous look on his face, "You'll do just fine here, Newt. It's not so bad. Plus, if you need anything, you got questions, need a friend, my sister Tina and I are happy to help!" She was certainly bubbly, that was for sure.

He thanked her, of course, and headed in through the door she'd indicated. His office door did indeed have his name on it, and it took him a minute to get inside (figures, his office door was sticky and old, and it stuck when he tried to open it) and when he did he found it bland and rather sparse. Just a desk, a chair, and an outdated calendar sitting on top of the desk.

Well, it wasn't Scotland Yard, but he supposed it could have been far worse.

He set his satchel down on the desk and pulled out the small succulent he'd brought with him from home. It didn't make much of a difference, but it looked kinda cute on his desk. Opening his laptop, he put it in front of the chair along with his phone. All in all, not the best work space, but it would have to do for now.

He was musing on what to do next when a knock came from the doorway. Sighing, he turned and looked at the newcomer in the doorway. Well dressed, neat hair with gray at the temples, rather dark brown eyes, classically handsome, "Can I help you?" Strangely enough, he didn't pick up any vibes on this man. Zero on the radio waves, nothing at all. That had never happened before.

"I'm Detective Graves," The man said, and entered his office with a stack of files so large that Newt felt his stomach sink. "You're the new profiler, Scamander, right? I need you to go over these files for me and put together a profile. It would help if I knew what I was looking for." 

And Newt officially hated this guy as he handed over the (again, very, very large) stack of files and tried to give him a (oh god, was he in pain or something?) painful looking smile. But, being the polite British man he was, he took the files, "I'll do my best, sir. This, uh... this'll take me awhile."

The detective gives him another horribly uncomfortable smile and nods, "I really will need it as soon as you can possibly get it to me. There have been more than enough murders, don't you think?" There was an edge to his voice, a cold bite. That only served to intrigue him. He wondered if the detective was personally involved in this case somehow.

"As you wish, sir. I'll get right on it." He answered, though his own tone was less friendly now. More curt, clipped. The detective seemed to pick up on that and he merely nodded before he left the room, leaving nothing behind but the scent of cigarettes and a faint cologne that Newt found oddly appealing.

Rolling his eyes and mentally flipping the (admittedly handsome) detective off, he took to his desk and opened the files, a notepad and pen at the ready.

Nothing prepared him for what was inside.

The scenes were horribly graphic, blood soaked and violent, and Newt could practically hear the screams and see the faces of the victims as they faced their fate. It caused an involuntary shiver to roll down his back, and one thin, pale hand pushed through his hair as he stared down at horrible reality.

No matter how many times he opened files just like this, he'd never get used to the sight of bodies - pieces and parts that had once been human beings, men and women and children. It always caused the same tight ball of grief and anger to swell in his guts and boil his blood. It was that - the anger, the absolute rage - that spurred him on every time. Made him perfect his abilities until he could spot the killer from miles away. He was good at his job because of his anger.

He pushed through the pictures, hazel-green eyes noticing what the others had missed. A pattern here, a difference there, something missed or simply looked past. This was what he did, each and every time. His pen gripped in one hand, knuckles white, he got down to work and wrote down every little detail.

Just like he always did.


End file.
